J,^M' 




The Dream Beautiful 
And Other Poems 



The Dream Beautiful 



And Other Poems 



Sy 



Charles Hamilton Musgrove 




Louisville 

John P. Morton and Company 

1898 






^1 



s 



14381 



Copyrighted iSgS, 
By Charles Hamilton Muss[rozc 




WOGCPlfJ^RPCElVED- 



2nd COPV, 
1893. 



T)edication. 

To E. 

Sometimes amid the weary jar and toil 

Of bitter, barren hours that come and go 
Like aimless ghosts of days I used to know, 

I feel about my heart the strangling coil 

Of dumb despair, and read the certain foil 

Of Fate, misnamed of faith the " Better-so " ; 
Then with mine own hand I would crush and throw 

Hopes, deeds, and soul amid the wreck and spoil. 

Did I not have thee near me, oh, my Love, 
And feel that by the magic of thy hand 

Something were builded for my heart above 

The toys with which we strew life's shifting sand, — 

Did I not lean upon thy soul, and trust 

Thy love to build anew where time has turned to dust. 



Index. 



A Ballad of the Dead 31 

A Broken Shrine 54 

A Memory 40 

An Autumn Retrospect 48 

April 37 

A Soul's Image 27 

Autumn Days 55 

A Voice from Silence 38 

Beauty 56 

Cain, or Christ ? 25 

Dream Beautiful 9 

Echoes from Bohemia 44 

Egoism 41 

Fairy Tales 51 

Foils 49 

I Gave my Love to Thee 50 

Mysteries 35 

One Who Came from Sea 28 

Phantoms 53 

Pompeii 34 

The Message of the Lilies 33 

The Sorrow of Attainment 45 

ToJ. T. C 52 

To Omar Khayyam 26 

Unsatisfied 47 



The Drea^n Beautiful. 



T/ie T)ream beautiful 



It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may 
By night or day. 

The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

— IVordsivorth . 



I 



H, me ! If I only could win 

And wed to my harp's rude measure 
Those thrillings of nameless pleasure 
That once were my childhood's treasure 
When Nature and Soul were akin ; — 
Ah, could I win and wed them to my strain, 
The sweetest songs of life were sung again. 

Ah, me ! If I only could know 
A thrill of that olden feeling 
Through my soul's dull fibres stealing 
That I felt when a child as kneeling 

At God's feet, long ago, — 

If but one chord of that lost harmony 

Were yet mine own, how blest the earth would be. 

9 



The Dream Beautiful. 



But the skies are never so blue 

As they were in the days of faerie ; 
And the world is never so merry, 
And songs are never so cheery, 

And hearts are never so true ; 

The glamour of my far child-world now seems 

Like a dead face we sometimes see in dreams. 

No more in the groves austere 

Where tuffets of wild flowers sprinkle 
Their odorous dews, and the twinkle 
Of sunbeams is caught in the wrinkle 

Of pools so cool and so clear, — 

No more in them the gnomes and sylvans play 

As once I saw them in an olden day. 

And so I never can win. 

Or wed to my harp's rude measure 
Those thrillings of nameless pleasure 
That once were my childhood's treasure 

When Nature and Soul were akin ; 

Gone are the genii and their happy spell. 

And hushed the voices that I loved so well. 

II 

With Spring's fresh dawn how hope leaps on, - 

How bounds the heart away ! 
Beneath the snow the wild flowers grow 

To crown the vernal day. 



Tlie Dream Beaut if til. 



Some alchemy no man can see 

Thrills at the waiting heart 
Of leafless woods, and, lo ! the buds 

To life by millions stait. 

Through flowering groves the robin loves 

His early mate to seek, 
And all day long his merry song 

Their happiness doth speak. 

From Nature's loom come tuft and bloom, 
Love sings the while she weaves, 

And skies of blue look laughing through 
Her roof of shimmering leaves. 

With Spring's fresh smile what charms beguile 

The heart from care away, — 
No grief, no blot, no sin, no doubt, 

But all the world at play. 

Ill 

Illusion is our youthful shrine — 

The child -world that we all have trod 
Is nearer to the throne of God 

Than any realm of thine or mine. 

The perfect peace, the simple trust, 

The boundless love of life's young day. 
Are treasures we have laid away 

Untarnished by the moth and rust. 



The Dream Beautiful. 



The things we saw, the dreams we dreamed, — 
A soul untouched by worldly stain, — 
Though they shall never be again, 

Yet we have known them, all they seemed. 

O cheating time ! O lying years ! 

The heart of childish faith you wring, 
The mockery of love you bring. 

The lessons that you teach with tears, — 

What is the burden of it all ? 

What is the good, and what the gain ? 

And being wise, what doth remain 
Except life's bitter lees and gall ? 

IV 

Never doth rose in garden blow. 

Or breathe the infectious mortal air 

Until its ripened petals glow 

With beauty, but its heart laid bare 
Will show the worm that gnaweth there. 

Its outward blush no hint betrays 

Of its heart's canker ; only when 

Rude Autumn's jealous finger lays 
Its guarded secret bare, we ken 
The death that in its life hath been. 



The Dream Bea2itif2il. 



And so the heart that knows the world 

Knows most of sorrow. Like the rose 

It hath the worm, Infection, curled 

Dark at its bitter core whence grows 
The silent blight that no man knows. 

It may be vice, or lust of gold, 

Or sorrow for the hopes that fail, 

Or love that weeps, — but still we hold 

Hearts saddened with the serpent's trail 
Though years are long and hearts are frail. 



What is the cost of the years we live ? 

'Tis the faith that our hearts surrender, 
The passing away of a splendor — 

The giving of all we can give. 

What is the boon of the years we live ? 
'Tis ever the world-old story, — 
A bauble to catch at, — a glory 

To hold like wine in a sieve. 

What is the meed of the life we lead ? 

Hands that are bare with their winning. 
Hearts that are sad with their sinning. 

The quake of a storm-bent reed. 



The Dream Beaut if ul . 



What is the meed of the hfe we lead ? 
A sigh for the things ideal, 
A tear for the grief that is real. 

A cry that no man will heed I 

VI 

Oh. days of gold I Oh, land of song ! 
Oh, world of genii and of dreams ! 
How vague and sad the Ught that gleams 
About thy haunted woods and streams — 

Thou hast been gone so long, so long. 

Oh, land of song ! Oh, days of gold I 
What wealth of childish fairj* store, 
Wtat treasures rich of mythic lore 
Are buried in thy Nevermore — 

Tales that shall never be re-told. 

There is a song that haunts me yet. 

A simple theme, a simple strain, — 
I may not hear it sung again. 
It may be that I hope in vain — 

No matter ; I will not forget. 

It is a song that came with spring. 

With Uf e"s young morning — at a time 
When earths old discord turns to rhyme. 
\\Tien fairy beUs are all a -chime. 

And each heart hath a song to sing. 
14 



The Dream Beautiful. 



Oh, land c5f dreams ! Oh, days of gold ! 
I give you back the song you sung — 
The Song of Love when life was young. 
Take it and let it rest among 

My other treasures that you hold. 

VII 
The dreams that used to be — 
Our faith in them is deep although we know 
They have been shipwrecked in the Long Ago 
And never can return. And yet we stand 
Hopeful and patient on time's lonely strand 
Scanning with eager eyes the unpitying sea 
That holds in its cold depths the dreams that used 
to be. 

The dreams that used to be — 
The riches of our souls that we have sent 
On those frail barks to some fair continent 
On Love's map marked alone — ah, what's the gain ? 
Our treasure-ships lie deep beneath the main, 
Their precious cargoes wasted ; and yet we 
Are loth to call them lost, — the dreams that used 

to be. 

VIII 

Where are those shores my soul beheld when morn 
Broke o'er the waters, — lands where fruitful May 
Pours constant bloom, and spicy sea-winds play 

Round purple peaks that temples rich adorn ? 



The Dream B eautiful. 



Have they departed and left me forlorn ? 

Ah, 't is the same old story of the day — 

The dawn that builds, the night that takes away, 

The death at eve to dreams with morning born ! 

So I am left as one at eventide 

Watching a fading rainbow, half in dream. 
Seeing its painted tissues gleam by gleam 

Fade out and go forever. Thus beside 

The rainbow of a promise that hath lied, 
I sit and sadly watch its dying beam. 
Knowing full well that it can never seem 

Again what once I held it in my pride. 

IX 

In Summer's light how care takes flight. 

The hours how swift they move, 
And all the earth is made for mirth. 

And every day for love. 

The galaxy of flower and tree. 

Of bee and singing bird. 
Makes song to start from every heart, 

And joy in every word. 

Youth asks no more to crown its store 

Of bliss than just this boon : 
The sky's bright face, the wholesome grace 

Of one fair day of June. 

l6 



The Dream Beautifttl. 



Gaunt Care may scowl beneath her cowl, 

And bite her lip to see 
How all in vain she pipes her strain 

At Summer's jubilee. 

The days how bright, the hours how light, 

When Summer calls her train 
Of happy loves in fairy groves, 

And we are young again. 

X 

To sit and hold the shards of faith 

Whence life's most precious wine hath drained 
To earth, and left all ruby -stained 

A clot of dust our feet beneath, — 

To watch the fruitless tares that spring 

Therefrom, by faith's blood nourished. 
To know how bitter is the bread 

The Hearing harvest-time shall bring, — 

Is this the ending of our dream — 

Is this the promised land of hope 

To which we steered with sail and rope. 

Mast, spar and pennant all a-gleam ? 

And can we only see afar 

Vague, ghost-like, wrapped in dying glow, 
The shadow-land we used to know 

Pale as the fading morning star ? 
17 



The Dreafn B eautiful. 



XI 

Oh, brave De Leon, not alone 

Goest thou to seek the fabled spring 
Of youth eternal ; every one 

Who lives to hear life's vespers ring, 
Longs, in the twilight of his age, 
To join thy golden pilgrimage. 

De Leon, not alone with thee 

Shall rest the folly ; still we cling 

To thine old legend, — scour the sea 

And land to find thy wondrous spring 

Whose sparkling waters shall restore 

The sacred days of youth once more. 

XII 

Great Babylon, symbolic name. 

Thou altar where we bleed and die, — 
I see thy light upon the sky. 

The blood-red glory of thy shame ! 

Mother of harlots, cursed thou, 

From age to age, from life to death, 
I feel thy intoxicating breath — 

I feel thy kiss upon my brow ! 

Great Babylon, thou glittering mart 

Of tinsel joys, and lusts, and woes, — 
Whoever looks upon thee, goes 

Thereafter with a sorrowing heart ! 

i8 



The Dream Beautiful. 



I see tHy light upon the sky ; — 

I read the story of thy shame, — 
The human moths of nameless name 

That throng about thee but to die ! 

I hear a cry on every hand, 

It fills the world from pole to pole. 

They shout me : " Man hath sold his soul, 

And Mammon rules through all the land ! " 

Great Babylon, what woe is thine. 

When clothed in majesty and flame 
The Son of God shall come to claim 

The vintage of thy blasted vine ! 

XIII 
How beautiful thy world, O God, 

But Man's how dark and full of woe ! 
How different from our lost abode — 

The dim child-world of long ago. 
Nature still wears her natal dress. 
Still blooms in primal loveliness. 
Our evil steps, wherever trod. 

Mar not one vestige of her glow ; 
Her radiant face is still the same — 
To man belong the blight and shame. 

How beautiful thy world, O God, 

But Man's how dark and full of woe ! 

Man wields with pride his little rod 
Of power, smiling at the blow 
19 



The Dream Beautiful. 



His impious hand to Nature gives, — 
Nature who soothes him while he Uves 
And makes at last to deck the clod 

That holds him, her bright flowers to grow. 
Her radiant face is still the same, — 
To man belong the blight and shame. 



XIV 
'Mid blazing lands fair Autumn stands 

And hears the last faint trills 
Of Summer's song that lingers long 

Among the lazy hills. 

Her eyes are bright, her hair bedight 

With aster's starry gold ; 
Her winged hues their spell diffuse 

To brighten glen and wold. 

The dream-like glow above, below. 

Around and everywhere. 
Broods like the calm that follows psalm. 

Expectant of the prayer. 

The sumach's spire of crimson fire 
Burns redder day by day ; 

On upland sod the golden rod 
Blanches its life away. 



The Dream Beatttiftil. 



Anon the frost ; red leaves are tost 

By winds that taste of chill, 
And Autumn's smile dies out the while 

She bows to Winter's will. 

XV 

Some days are childhood's days — days sanctified 
By an immortal Presence that stood near 
Our naked souls and told us not to fear, 

And ever held a loving hand to guide. 

Some days are poet's days — days that God sends 
Only for love and music and sweet dreams ; 
Days wherein life's old haunting discord seems 

A perfect note and in perfection ends. 

Some days are Memory's days — when with white brow 
Through the old garden of her dreams she goes, 
And breathes one kiss upon the Past's dead rose, 

And half forgets the barren fields of Now. 

Some days are Sorrow's days, when strange with peace 
She stills her heart and listens to a song 
That never groweth old or over long, 

And drops one silent tear God only sees. 

XVI 
What give the years in return 

For the glory they take away ? 

For the bloom of our life's young day 
Have we only the ashes and urn ? 



The Dream Beautiful. 



Where is Romance the fair 

That in youth we loved so well, — 
Enchantress whose golden spell 

Was the charm of the earth and air ? 

Oh, Fancy ! no more shall seem 

The light of thy smile as of old ; 

On my heart is the world's dull mold. 

In my sight the mote and the beam. 

All now is a closed up book, 

And sealed with a mighty seal ; 
Its spell I have ceased to feel, 

And my heart to long to look. 

XVII 

Oh, soul of Song that grows not old, 

That changes not with place or time. 
But keeps the music of its rhyme 

For hearts that worldly grief makes cold, — 

I turn from all that is estranged 

In man's dominion, — turn to thee, 
Sweet songstress, and rejoice to see, 

That thou remainest still unchanged ! 

For thou art one at least who speaks 
Fraught with a wisdom yet untold, 
A language beautiful, but old, — 

So old that no man ever seeks 



The Dream Beautiful, 



To know or preach it if he be 

Not one of Nature's ministers; — 
A creed wherein no mortal errs, 

And every human heart is free. 

All things the stars with limpid eyes 

Dream, looking downward through the night, 
The faith that keeps the wild flowers bright, 

The love that thrills and purifies 

The wild bird's song, the golden tryst 
Between the twilight and the dawn, 
The hope that helps the tired hours on. 

And beckons through the doubtful mist. 

All these are thine, oh, soul of Song, 
And go not with the flying years. 
But near the fountain of our tears 

Abideth comforting and strong ; 

And one who ne'er to God hath prayed 
May fitly worship at thy shrine. 
For thou art but the mask divine 

God wears at the World's masquerade, 

XVIII 

With Winter's chill how bleak and still, 

The earth how cold and gray ! 
No songs to sing, no flowers to bring 

The grave of Yesterday, 
as 



The Dream Beautiful. 



The woods are bare, the gloomy air 

Hangs like a chilling breath ; 
On hills of brown the grim skies frown — 

It is a time for death. 

'Neath moldering heaps of dead leaves sleeps 

The primrose of last year ; 
The robin's throat recalls no note 

Of airs we used to hear. 

The Spring's young wiles, the Summer's smiles, 

The Autumn's pomp and glow. 
With all their bloom have made their tomb 

Beneath the Winter's snow. 

Oh, worse than death this blighted faith 

In all we loved of old ; — 
The dying gleam of youth's bright dream, 

The dust that once was gold ! 

L'Envoi. 

I might have known that it would pass away ; 
Others before me said that it would go. 
And called me fool ; and yet I loved it so 

I dared not think it only for a day. 

But now the dream is done, — the enchanting spell 
Is gone forever. Poor as miser hands. 
And rich as wreckage on the sea's cold sands - 

Such is my heart as now I say '< Farewell " ! 
24 



Cain, or Christ? 



Cain, or Christ} 

(Written on Easter Sunday, 189S.) 
I 

THWART the blazing ramparts of the day 

The white-robed hosts of Peace come hand in 
hand, 
While palms and lilies strew the joyous way, 

And Christ, the risen King, smiles o'er the land. 

II 

Behind the sullen fortress of the night 

Cain's armed legions wait with feverish breath, 

While high above them, lost to mortal sight. 

Hover the black and steadfast wings of Death. 



25 



To Omar Khayyam. 



O 



^o Omar Khayyam* 

MAR, when I have stilled my spirit's fire 
To heed the yearning music of your lyre, 

I wonder if beyond the mystic veil 
You found the region of the Heart's Desire. 

I wonder if the faith you kept is best, 
If after all those hearts are happiest 

Who crown life's little day with feast and song, 
Then go contented to their dreamless rest. 

But howsoe'er it be no sage has told. 
And, ah, the weary world is growing old 

A-waiting for the lightning flash of Truth 
To pierce the heavy clouds about it rolled. 

Without the City of Ideals are they 

Who tread the wine-press of Unrest for aye. 

And, oh, the many furlongs that their tears 
Have flowed, and still are flowing day by day ! 

I sometimes stoop above the rose's bed 
And gaze into its heart so richly red. 

And wonder where can Omar be the while 
His garden blooms so bravely round his head ; 

And then remember how so long, so long. 
The dust of earth has stopped his tuneful tongue. 
And think how sweet must be his sleep beneath 
The everlasting laurels of a song. 
26 



A Soul's Image. 



A Soul's Image* 

LL praised the artist's picture. She had wrought 
Through years of patience to embody there 
The deep voice of her soul ; life's earnest care 
Was in the work, the dominant trace of thought 
That tends to one fixed goal and falters not. 
The world gazed on the image of a fair 
Frail girl, her clasped hands lifted as in prayer, 
Mute eyes that seemed to have missed the love they 

sought 
On earth and turned to Heaven ; on her breast 
A broken lily hung which seemed a part 
Of all the wasted longing and unrest 
That stirred the soul beneath it. It was art 
All said, — but one who knew the artist best. 
Knew that it did but type her broken heart. 



One Who Came From Sea. 



T 



One Who Came From Sea. 

HEY tell me now that she is fallen asleep, 
Dimmed the soft eyes that cheered me o'er the deep, 
Hushed the dear voice whose sound 
Not ocean-nymph or siren coral-crowned 
Can e'er repeat, and passionless that breast 
That was the haven of my hope's last quest. 

I am one come from sea, 
One who had hoped to find a haven here, 
Of peace and rest 'gainst winds and tides austere. 
But now hath no port but eternity. 

I am one come fi"om sea. 
The long, long cruise is o'er, 
The heart-sick vigil, waiting for the shore 
That held the seemliest prize of all for me 
Is past ; 
My hour is come at last. 

I might have heard it in the dreary rain, 
And surely the refrain 
Of every wind that blew 
Was burdened with it, too. 
I might have seen her white soul like a stain 
Of mist upon the sky 
As she passed by. 

28 



One Who Came Frojn Sea. 



I might have learned it from our star whose beams 

Filled those dear waking dreams 
When I would wait the lonely watches through 

Thinking, oh, love, of you ! 
But, Father of all, thou knowest we are blind. 

And Time is more than kind. 

Why should she die ? 
And what more need of her hath God than I ? 
Heaven still were heaven had she been spared awhile, 
But what is left to me without her smile ? 

Have I been falsely told ? 
And was there never any fairy gold ? 
Whence then her beauteous hair ? 
And were the purple pansies of her eyes 

Just mortal dyes ? 
I feel that they are blooming still somewhere. 
Despite my heavy meed of worldly lies. 

I am one come from sea — 
One. who had hoped to find a haven here. 
But now hath no port but eternity. 

How bleak it seems and strange — 
So empty and unreal I almost dare 
To hope the sorcery that wrought this change 
Will yet restore 
Her to me as before. 



29 



One Who Came From Sea. 



Vain dreams, delusions all ! 
I know that she is far beyond my call. 
Have I not seen the hedge-rose flowering o'er 
Her little mound, and clusters of the small 
Sweet, pensive violets ? 
Who sees such and forgets ? 
And they shall bloom 
About her, make a censer of her tomb. 
And waft sweet incense to the summer skies. 
Go with the season, and return with spring. 
But, oh, what time or season e'er can bring 
The recompense of love that never dies ? 

I will go back to sea — 
Back to the bitter revel and unrest 
That is a part 
Of the same doom that blights the mortal breast, 
And unto which I give my restless heart. 
Welcome once more the tempest and the brine, 
For even such is now this life of mine ! 



A Ballad of the Dead. 



<A "Ballad of the "Dead. 



W 



HO will sing a song for the dead, 

For the countless, common throng, 

That the ashes of earth have buried 
And left without a song ? 

Who will sing for the voiceless tribes 

Of the North, East, South, and West, 

That have had their years of toil and tears, 
And have earned their silent rest ? 

'Tis not for the hearts that now beat high, 
Or the lips that are rich with jest. 
To mar the day and its revelry 

With a death-song at the feast. 

'T is not for the bird that sings all day 

To his mate on the flowering limb ; 
The skies are clear and the nest is near. 
And what is death to him ? 

'T is not for the flower whose petals sway 
In the glow of the yellow sun ; 
Beauty, and life, and a fair to-day, 
And its simple song is done. 

With noiseless march the years go by 

And the hearts that thrilled and beat 

Become the spoil of the earth-worm's toil. 
And dust beneath our feet. 
31 



A Ballad of the Dead. 



And day by day as we fight our way 
O'er the tomb of a mighty past, 

No dirge breaks in on the roaring din 
Of the life-tide flowing fast. 

Then who will sing a song for the dead, 
For the countless common throng, 

That have had their years of toil and tears. 
But have not earned a song ? 

Ah, Self is the god that rules us all, 

And the doom of the dead is naught ; 

We are kings to-day ; let others sway 
In our stead when we are not. 



The Message of the Lilies. 



The cMessage of the Lilies* 

I 

What say the UUes white 
In the freshness of morn's happy glow, 
Holding up their fragile cups of snow 

Like angel palms 

That beg for alms 
Of mercy for the sinful world below ? 

This say the lilies white : 
< ' We bring thee tidings of the mourning night : 

He lives ! He lives ! He lives ! 

His promise still He gives ; 
The sepulchre is empty where He lay — 
Behold, it is the Resurrection Day ! " 

n 

What say the lihes white, 
Fading, dying on the quiet breast 
Of one whom Death hath kindly kissed to rest, 

Drooping so 

Like joys that grow 
Ephemeral beside the path of Quest ? 

This say the lilies white : 
' » We bring thee tidings of the mourning night : 

She lives ! She lives ! She lives ! 

Christ still His promise gives ; 
The empty sepulchre holds naught but clay — 
Behold, it is the Resurrection Day ! " 



Po mp eii. 



Pompeii 



OMETIMES Vesuvius lifts a vivid cone 
I Of threatening fire above her awful crest, 

And from the depths of her tumultuous breast, 
Sends forth a hollow menace, a deep tone. 
As if Hell spake through her great lips of stone 

Some mystic creed, some riddle half-expressed, 

Whose name is Doom, like that Pompeii guessed 
When she and death forever were made one. 
Sometimes there falls a shaft of horrid light 

Athwart the Mediterranean, dyeing red 
The waters ; but together peace and night 

Keep watch above the city of the dead ; 
The night that God hath willed no morn make bright. 

The peace that to eternity is wed. 



34 



T 



My steries . 



cMysteries. 

HERE are things in this world of ours that we never 

can set straight — 
To-day we are lords of fancy, to-morrow the fools of 
fate ; 
In one act we play the sovereign, and clowns for our 

pastime sing, 
In the next we are turning a sordid jest to the ear of a 
selfish king. 

Our days are an index to the years ; we can turn from 

to-day and see 
Its puzzling lesson more fully told on some page of 

futurity, 
But whether with good runs evil, or mirth with the 

pathos blend, 
Can we count life's chapters or even guess how the 

tale at last will end ? 

Do we know a jot of the author's plot, or whether with 
smiles or tears, 

He shall write the wonderful tale of life in the Doom- 
book of the years ? 

Do we know who'll read it, or understand, or laugh, or 
weep, or pray. 

Or fold her heart like a lily-bud between its leaves for 
aye ? 

35 



My st cries . 



There are things in this world of ours beyond all 

human ken ; 
The uninterpreted "Shall" of God is vexed by the 

" Why " of men 
Till the issues of life throb feverish 'twixt the crown 

of thorns we see 
And the crown of love that is promised us in a life 

that is to be. 

There are things in this world of ours that we never 

can set straight — 
To-day we are lords of fancy, to-morrow the fools of 

fate ; 
We can not fathom the living, and the dead from their 

grave stones laugh 
As we read between the "Born" and "Died" of the 

moldering epitaph. 



36 



April. 



cApriL 



T 



O-DAY thou seemest a soul that doth remember 
An olden grief that it would fain forget — 

Th' unbidden sorrow of some dark December 

That clouds thy face and makes thine eye-lids wet. 



When first I greeted thee with morn's awaking 
An hour ago, so cheerful seemed thy smile 

That I would ne'er have dreamed thy heart was aching . 
That thy fair breast was burdened all the while. 

And now thy tears. How like a woman's sorrow — 
Behind them thou art laughing as they fall, 

Planning thy mirth and sunshine for to-morrow ; 
Ah, well ! thou art but human after all. 



37 



A Voice From Silence, 



A Voice From Silence. 

I 

WHERE have we met, do you ask me ? and what 
is the subtle spell 
That makes us, strangers an hour ago, now know 
each other so well ? 
You feel it, too ? How curious ; I 'm sure I can not tell. 

II 

Do I believe in re-incarnation ? Yes, since I 've looked 

in your eyes ; 
Do I believe that life is an essence that changes but 

never dies ? 
Doesn't each day preach it and teach it with seas and 

flowers and skies ? 

Ill 
I can remember you only as a soul remembers a soul, 
Stripped of time, place, and distance and the weaker 

mind's control, — 
You are the one part living 'midst a dust-enshrouded 

whole. 

IV 
Where have we fared together? Oh, why is the flesh so 

blind ? 
And what are these unseen tendrils by which our lives 

are entwined ? 
What have we been to each other ? I pray God we were 

kind! 

38 



A Voice From Silence. 



V 

And yet it may be I loved you, and you were as false 
as hell, 

Or maybe I wronged you and scorned you, for where is 
the tongue to tell ? 

But our lives were tried sometime I know in the self- 
same crucible. 

VI 

Can you gather a note from the darkness that broods 

o'er the years, wide breach ? 
Can you ever hope to interpret a word of our souls' 

strange speech ? 
Must we plod a new aeon in silence ? God, where is 

the sage to teach ? 

VII 
What shall we keep as a token while the cycle of change 

goes round 
That shall bring us face to face again from the shadows 

so profound ? 
Let it be our love if we loved at all, or our hate if hate 
did wound. 

VIII 

For loving and hating are equal if each to its end be 

true. 
And the changeless seal of hate or love is branded upon 

us two ; 
You shall go forth and seek for me, and I must wait for 

you. 

39 



A Memory. 



A Memory* 



*HEE I remember as some sweet, white flower 
That grew beside my life's unheeding way — 
A blossom that I fancied for an hour, 
But left among the wreaths of Yesterday. 

Life was young then, and there were flowers to spare, 

"What heed for one frail bloom ? " I said and smiled ; 
But now the thistle and the flaunting tare 

Have choked my path — I am no more a child. 

I need thee now — I need thy youth and grace, 

I need the lesson of thy faith to con, 
I need the inspiration of thy face, 

I need thy gentle self — but thou art gone ! 



40 



T 



Egoism. 



Egoism. 



HERE'S a moral hidden somewhere in the things 

that nature plans, 
Seeming just a trifle deeper than the eye of mortal 

scans ; 
Man, as usual, is too busy with the follies that are 

man's. 

II 

Folly coupled unto frailty, blind with dust, and crowned 

with pride, — 
What a graceless pair of sovereigns set to rule a realm 

so wide : 
Is it strange that greed and rapine thrive where love 

and art have died ? 

Ill 

And the moral that she teaches while her gentler sub- 
jects list, 

Thrills from earth and earth's completeness up to 
Heaven's amethyst ; 

Man alone has failed to learn it, — oh, surpassing 
egoist ! 

41 



Egoism. 



IV 

See the hills how they obey her, — how they smile at 

her command ; 
See her myriad forces working soul to soul and band 

to band ; 
Man's the only thing rebellious in the hollow of God's 

hand. 

V 

See him poring blind and witless o'er life's pages thrust 

awry, 
Torn and crumpled, tear-stained, blood-stained, cast in 

helpless sorrow by, 
Lost in foolish contemplation of the undetermined 

Why ;— 

VI 

Lo, he brightens ; has he found it ? Is the mote from 

out his eye ? 
Sweeps a sudden shadow darkening like a cloud across 

the sky. 
And he reads his doom that instant — what's the use to 

further try ? 

VII 

So he grapples with the problem, but it proves a 

thunder-bolt, 
Laughs to scorn his vain presumption, mocks his 

spirit's meek revolt, 
And his meed : There was a moment when he cast away 

the dolt. 



Egoism. 



VIII 

Nature's lesson lieth clearer, — all her cults are not 

obscure ; 
Man has made his sphere of evil and his own soul 

must endure ; 
There is peace and love in plenty where the deeds and 

hearts are pure. 



43 



Echoes From BoJiemia 



Echoes from Bohemia* 

'ANNED with soft zephyrs and 'neath softer skies, 
I dream and look to where Bohemia lies, 
A drowsy minstrel and a languid gale, 
A leaky shallop and a tattered sail. 

The waters lisp upon the shell-strewn shore 
And mingle with the lute-notes drifting o'er 
From siren bowers, while all around me glows 
The dream-light that Bohemia only knows. 

And so I drift and drift past idle shores. 
My harp unstrung and still my useless oars, 
A leaky shallop and a tattered sail, 
A drowsy minstrel and a languid gale. 



The Sorrow of Attainment. 



^he Sorrow of Attainment 



w 



HOSE laurels, bought with blood of dreams, 
Have ever filled his heart's desire ? 
Whose soul has ever blessed the fire 
That on Achievement's altar gleams, — 



The fire wherein we cast the best 

Of all God's gifts to see them take 
Unlovely shapes for custom's sake, 

Yet hate them in our inmost breast ? 

Whoever came unto her shrine 

To claim his meed of wine and oil. 
That has not felt how poor the spoil ? 

That has not cursed his oil and wine ? 

And one who toiled and fought and bled 
Will look back to some vanished day 
When sorrowing love had bade him stay, 

And he had followed fame instead. 

And still another one will say : 

' ' Why, all the song-birds here are mute, 
And all the apples dead- sea fruit. 
And all the skies are chill and gray ! " 

45 



The Sorrow of Attainment. 



Whoever holds his dream too dear 
To sacrifice at custom's feet, 
Obtains a recompense more sweet 

Than they who worldly laurels wear. 

For laurels bought with blood of dreams 
Have never filled one heart's desire, 
But only fed th' alluring fire 

That on Achievement's altar gleams. 



46 



Unsatisfied. 



Unsatisfied* 



I 



SOMETIMES think if I had been the song 

Some wild bird sang deep in her tangled glen, 

The pure, free strains that are not meant for men, 
But only to God's minstrelsy belong, — 
Or had I been a frail, white flower among 

The blooms that in some small, cold hand were 
pressed 

By a mother's fingers as her soul addressed 
This sign to Heaven that still her faith was strong, — 
I think that I had lived to worthier ends ; 

I think that I had fitted nobler needs 
Than to have joined the fabble that contends 

With blood and fire to foster worthless creeds ; 
Than to have fought where no man comprehends 

His purpose, or the measure of his deeds. 



An Auttinin Ret 7' aspect. 



An Autumn Retrospect 

lO-DAY I think I see her as of old 

Amid the glory of the autumn leaves ; 

I think I stand beside her as she weaves 
For her dark hair a crown of green and gold. 
The scented sadness of the dying wold 

Haunts the still air like some lone thing that grieves 

In silence, and reveals not what bereaves 
Its life of joy, but dies with all untold. 
To-day in dreams I stand with her again — 

The poet's answered prayer is doubly mine, 
For, blending with the woodland's peaceful strain. 

Float the sweet heart-chords of a love divine ; 
But with the morrow's dawn what shall remain ? 

Only my heart bowed down at sorrow's shrine. 



48 



Foils . 



^oils. 



O 



NE loved the sea, — the wide untiring sweep 
Of God's great waters ; on her awful brow 
He read immutability austere, 

Majestic despotism old as time. 

And loved her : — every day saw her the same, 

Impassive, passionless, and grand, and cold. 

One loved a star, — a tiny, glittering spark 

In far immensity ; — each night its beams 

Came like a benediction to her soul, 

A silent song of immortality — 

A pure, unchanging message of God's love : 

And so she loved it and the star was true. 

One loved a mortal, — in her eyes he dreamed 

Life's ultimate joy, and in her touch he felt 

Divinity ; about her shown the grace 

Of human comeliness .... But in her heart 

The inevitable bane of earthly love 

Bloomed like two poisonous lilies — Sin and Death. 



/ Gave My Love to Thee. 



I 



/ Gave My Love to TTzee* 

GAVE my love to thee in silent prayer, 

I vaunted not my gift, nor called it boon, 
But gave it as wild roses give to June 

Their mite of fragrant blessing everywhere. 

I gave it as unto the twilight air 

Some bird copse-hidden pours his wistful tune 
To hopeless silence, while the frail, white moon 

Is hasting down her starry western stair. 

I ask thee nothing now, — that hour is dead ; 

Not even regret's cold flame burns in my breast ; 

At thy fair shrine my soul's best gifts were spread 
First sacrifice, and last, and holiest ; 

If they were aught to thee, oh, bow thy head 
Above their ashes — and so let them rest ! 



Fairy Tales, 



3^airy Tales. 



O they were wedded and lived happily 
I Forever after : thus the fairy tale 

Closed, and I saw a castle by the sea 

Merry with feast and song, and knights in mail 
Did homage to the princess fair and pale 

Whom the bold prince had freed from sorcery. 

II 

And in the fairy tale of Life there stands 

A castle where fair Truth weeps to be free, 

And Man's soul strives and strives with earnest hands 
And shall its legend in the days to be 
Read : They were wedded and lived happily 

Forever after, — Man on Truth's broad lands ? 



To J. T. C. 



To]. T. a 



WHO has not stood in autumn's tear-wet weather 
Watching the sad year's glory fade and die, 
The while the ash-gray light crept up the sky 
And the chill rains beat on the barren heather ? 
And seen the summer's dead flowers heaped together 
Like a queen's garlands from the feast cast by, 
And in his inmost soul not questioned " Why ? " 
Or in his saddened heart not wondered " Whither ? " 
And who, when spring-time's living kiss instilled 

The vital breath that brought them back to bloom, 
Has not remembered that the One who willed 

That such might be still watches in the gloom, — 
Still keeps the promise that all time has thiuUed — 
The gift of worthier life beyond the tomb ! 



Phantoms . 



Phantoms. 



OMETIMES I dream the old regret is dead 
I That haunts the darkened Castle of the Past ; 

Sometimes the solemn stillness of the vast, 
Dark chambers wraps me like a peace that's wed 
Unto my soul — a peace sent in love's stead, 

Breathing forgetfulness . . . and then there falls 

A ghostly whisper through the silent halls 
As if a spirit spake : and I am led 
By some strange spell to follow where it goes, 

Even to the uttermost turret, while the night 
Reaches with elfish arms and draws me close ; 

The whisper dies, and I await the light 
That Cometh not, — while one sad Presence grows 

Beside my soul — Love, deathless, mute and white. 



A Broken Shrine. 



A Broken Shrine* 



w 



HEN Love returns to her old shrine to weep. — 
To kneel among the scattered fragments there 
For one short hour and offer up a prayer, — 

To kiss the relics that the past shall keep 

Inviolate, the while the ivies creep 

Like some soft hand that is all tenderness, 
And fain would cover up with sweet caress 

The marks of old decay — when Love shall steep 

Their gentle roots in her refreshing tears. 
How shall it be with one who first hath led 

Her steps unto the shrine ? Can all the years 
Destroy the hour of rapture that was bred 

Thereby, no matter if the heart it sears, 
And but for it no tears were ever shed ? 



Autumn Days. 




Autumn Days* 




X'^V NE gaudy day comes like a clown 




1 1 Who bows and says with jocund air, 




< ' Yon butterfly looks lonely where 




The clover-tops hang dead and brown ; 




So in the autumn of man's years 




Youth's spirit, time has burdened so, 




Still haunts the dying past and fears 




Lest even the shadows fade and go." 




One day comes like a peace that stills 




The autumn's plaint, — that broodeth high 




Between the calm earth and the sky 




And beautifies the mist-like hills 




Stretching away on either side, 




Until their distant margins seem 




Lands where enchanters might abide. 




And sirens sing and warriors dream. 




One day comes like an idle bard 




Who looks across the hills and sings : 




' ' Strange nomads in their wanderings 




Have pitched their tents on yonder sward, — 




The gypsies of the autumn time. 




The bodiless hues that up and down 




The whole wide world with touch sublime 




Go weaving earth a pastoral gown." 




55 





B eauty . 



One day comes like a sage that bends 
A gaunt, gray form above his staff, 
And laughs a melancholy laugh, 

And says : ' ' Who is it comprehends 

Life's mystic sequence ? Yon frail leaves 
Drift down and die, yet hold their faith 

In a far spring-time ; but Man grieves 

And only learns despair from death." 



beauty* 



B 



EAUTY is such sweet pain to souls that dream ; 
The poet sings it in a worldless sigh, 
The artist paints it in his wistful eye, 

But neither song nor picture can redeem 

More than an echo or a dying gleam 

Of all the daily music trembling by. 
Of all the nightly wonder of the sky, 

Dim as fay-faces in a haunted stream. 

Beauty is such sad joy to hearts that yearn ; 
I feel it standing where the summer-tide 
Pours out its bloomy ripples far and wide ; 

I feel it when the autumn woodlands burn 

Scarlet and gold ; but with the spring I learn 

God's message of new life to all that lived and died. 
56 



SEP 1 



1898 



